start over again
by remy-areyousrs
Summary: Sam won't come near him, or even look him in the eye. He flinches when the name "Sammy" slips out of Dean's mouth, and jumps like he's been burned when Dean's skin comes into contact with his. Dean just wants them to be brothers again. [Rated for graphic descriptions of injury, and suicidal/self-harming ideation.]


**This was festering in my laptop for a couple weeks before I finally decided to complete it and put it up. It's a bit of a different writing style from what I'm used to, and it's more graphic than anything I've ever written. Heed the tags, people. In any case, feedback is greatly appreciated. I haven't written for SPN in forever and basically this is just me making a dramatic entrance back into fandom.**

**You can take it as Wincest or otherwise. All up to you, friend.**

* * *

**start over again**

* * *

They're at the table and Dean is eating a sandwich and Sam's pushing around his salad in his plate and Dean says "Pass the beer, Sammy" and Sam flinches so hard his fork falls out of his hand and clatters against his plate, and there is a sick, sick taste in Dean's mouth as he remembers. For a few seconds they are frozen, and Dean can't bring himself to look at his brother, but then Sam hands him the beer and gets up and leaves, and Dean waits but Sam doesn't come back.

* * *

He stops by Sam's room on the way to his own and the door is ajar, and he wonders what he'll find if he looks in. He stands outside Sam's door and contemplates his choices and then slowly, silently, peeks inside.

Sam's lying curled up on his bed, over the sheets, not even having bothered taking off his clothes, and he's asleep but not resting. There are lines all over his face and his hands are fisted in the sheets and he's mumbling words Dean cannot hear.

Dean wonders with a painful twist of his gut if this will ever be okay.

* * *

"Morning, Sam," he says carefully when Sam comes down the next day, and he doesn't know what's in his eyes but when Sam sees it his entire face falls.

"Morning," he replies cautiously and picks up a book, and he doesn't look at Dean.

It's sadness, Dean realizes a few minutes later, a sadness so deep Sam can't even express it, because now Dean has to be careful around him and not call him Sammy, and isn't that a cold bitch?

He fights down the bile rising in his throat and very deliberately says "Whatcha you reading, Sam?" because maybe if he says it enough it won't sound like poison to his brother.

* * *

He's woken up in the middle of night, one night many nights after the first, by the sound of screaming so loud that there has to be some vocal cord damage left in its wake. He's out of his bed in a second, running towards the source of the sound with a knife in his hand, and he can't imagine what could be making such an inhuman, _terrified_ noise–

Until he throws open Sam's door and finds him thrashing in his bed, kicking and shouting and sweating like the Devil is trying to get back inside, and Dean feels _sick_ like he hasn't before, wants to turn his knife on himself because _he did that, he did that to Sam_–

And he doesn't know how to fix it.

The sob's out of his throat before he can stop it, and he feels like there are razor-sharp pieces of shattered glass inside him tearing him into pieces because he's done this, this is his fault and nothing he does will ever make it okay, will ever make _Sam_ okay. His brother is scared of him to the point where he has nightmares and he won't look him in the eye and he jumps when the word "Sammy" slips out of his mouth, and Dean can't, he _can't_, he doesn't know what to do and his world is crashing down around him.

So he yells, "Castiel!" and the angel is there in the blink of an eye and he doesn't even need to be told what to do, he just rushes into Sam's room and places a hand on his forehead and lulls him back into a dreamless sleep, and Dean just watches from the doorway and hates that Castiel is acting like this is not the first time he's had to do this.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" he asks later, when he's sitting with Cas at the table downstairs.

The angel looks up sharply, fixing Dean with a steely bright blue gaze. "What was what?" he asks carefully, but oh, he already knows, Dean can see it in those eyes that _won't stop judging him_.

Dean just snaps his head in the direction of Sam's room.

"He's scared," Castiel finally says, after long moments of regarding Dean with an expression that indicated he thought Dean was being an idiot. "He won't say it but he is. You did try to kill him with a hammer, you know."

Dean flinches violently at the reminder, sloshes some of his beer over himself. Undeterred, Castiel continues, "He's been looking for you non-stop. He didn't really eat or sleep. He's not doing very well, Dean."

And isn't that the fucking understatement of the year.

"I – what do I do?" Dean finally asks, after long minutes staring down at his fingers and wanting to rip them off, because these are the hands that tried to murder his baby brother and he wants nothing to do with them, doesn't _want_ them, wants to burn the skin right off his palms– "How do I help, Cas?"

Cas sighs, and this time there is so much grief in his face. "I do not know that you can," he says heavily and Dean's heart – whatever's left of it, anyway – falls down to his feet, through the floor, in a pit so deep nothing can drag it back out.

"Dammit, Cas, I've got to try," he says, swallows, and holds the angel's gaze this time.

Castiel doesn't say anything, just stares back, like he's trying to read every word written on Dean's skin and every curse in his blood, and then, "Yes. You've got to try." There is retribution in those words, and Dean understands that if Sam is not okay Castiel will be _furious_, and he will truly know what an angel's wrath is.

And shit, when did things get that bad? When did it become so bleak that Castiel had to assign himself as Sam's protector?

Dean sees pain and sorrow and righteous anger reflected back at him and he looks away first, because Castiel's gaze is going right through him and burning him down to his core.

* * *

Sam has a determined set to his jaw when he comes in the next morning, and he only looks at Dean long enough to greet him stonily before pouring himself a glass of milk and exiting the kitchen like his heels are alight.

* * *

They're in a bar hustling up some money and Dean unthinkingly says "Good shot, Sammy!" with a laugh, just like the old days, and then freezes, tenses up, but Sam only swallows and forces a smile on his face and goes back to hustling pool. Dean watches the firm, tightly coiled outline of Sam's muscles through his weary skin and wants nothing more than to rip his own tongue out of his mouth, his words are _hurting_ Sammy, he is hurting his Sammy but he can't stop, doesn't know how to, doesn't know if he can.

* * *

The nightmares either get less or Sam doesn't scream himself hoarse anymore but Dean still can't sleep, can't get through more than a few hours without waking up and making sure he's not holding a hammer, that Sam's okay in his room, asleep curled under the covers. He swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth and he resists the urge to smooth the lines out of the skin stretched tight over Sam's face, because that will not make it okay.

* * *

He wants nothing more than to get drunk until he passes out but he can't, he _can't_, he wants to but it makes him sick at the same time because he cannot lose control like that, he can't hurt Sam any more than he already has.

But then Sam passes him a book and their skin touches and Sam jumps like he's been burned, and Dean wants to peel his own skin off and cut himself into so many pieces because maybe if he's not there he won't be able to hurt Sam.

"No," Sam whispers, but he's not looking at Dean.

"What's that?" asks Dean, and then he realizes he's said it out loud and Sam looks stricken.

"No," Sam repeats, voice still low, and he _won't look up_ but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell that there are angry tears in his eyes, "don't you fucking _dare_, not after _everything_–" but he stops, and he takes a few deep breaths and storms off.

"I'm not the Dean you wanted," Dean says to thin air, and sinks his head into his arms.

* * *

"Maybe I should leave," Dean opines to Castiel. Sam's somewhere upstairs, something about archives and alphabetical arrangement Dean didn't really catch because he was too busy noticing how Sam looked just past his ear but never into his eyes, as if afraid they would turn black again.

From Castiel's expression it's obvious that the angel is resisting the urge to tell Dean to shove his head back up his ass, it'd be nicer in there, but because Cas isn't wired that way he says instead, "If you do that, Sam will never stop blaming himself."

"Why would he blame himself?" Dean asks, dull surprise in his tone. "All of this is _my_ fault, not his."

"That's not the way he thinks," Cas says sharply. "He will always find a way to put the blame upon himself, Dean, because that's what he's been told for so many years."

Dean blinks. "I – what?" and it's almost pitiful how he feels like his brain's been running for years but can't catch up.

"So many people–" and here Cas looks pointedly at Dean, "blame him for so many things–" his gaze falls to Dean's forearm, "that weren't his fault."

And Dean gets it, gets it in a sick rush of adrenalin and fear and _vomit_ – he thinks Stanford, and Ruby, and Purgatory, and not having a soul, and seeing the devil everywhere – and he thinks Mom, he thinks Jessica, he thinks of not having a soul and not knowing, and he thinks Benny and then immediately afterwards Amy, and also Kevin, and he wants nothing more than to crawl down a deep hole and never come out, and _what has he done to his brother?_

"He has to know," he tries, his voice weak even to his own ears, "that it wasn't–" but Castiel silences him with a look that says _really now, Dean?_

So he gulps, and tries not to focus on how everything blurs at the edges.

* * *

But he can't bring himself to talk to Sam about it, because Sam has to force himself to look his big brother in the eye and not flinch at his own name, and Dean doesn't have the strength or the force of will to put himself through an entire conversation like that. Besides, it's Sam who's always been the talking type.

Except now that he thinks about it, Sam hasn't talked to him, really _talked_ to him in years. It's always either something related to a hunt, or whatever clusterfuck is going on and Sam hasn't told him about his hopes and fears and dreams in so long and Dean wonders dully if there is anything like that even left inside Sam anymore.

* * *

Sam's arm heals slowly, and Dean hates himself every time he looks at the cast because shit, he did that. He's responsible for it, and he _hates_ that if he reaches out to touch Sam like he so desperately wants to, he'll break something inside his brother again and it'll kill both of them. He can't do it, he can't do another thing that'll hurt Sam or he'll never be able to deal with it.

Not that he's dealing _now_, if he's being honest with himself.

He just spends his days thinking of anything and everything that's happened that's led them to this, to what they are now, two strangers sharing blood and an old bunker. He doesn't ever give voice to the screaming ache in his heart every time he sees Sam, or is close enough to reach out and touch him but can't.

* * *

"I'm going on a hunt," Sam's telling Cas, and Dean slides into the library to find them both sitting at the table, books spread around. "It's not far from here, I should be back in a day or two."

"Let me come too." Dean didn't mean to speak but he did and now Sam and Castiel are both looking at him, before the angel turns to give Sam a deeply uneasy glance. "Look," Dean says, irritated, "I'm not gonna go off my rocker, okay? I'm gettin' sick of bein' cooped up in here."

Sam's very pointedly looking anywhere but at him, and Castiel's regarding him with the same unease and apprehension, and it makes nausea coil tightly inside his stomach, they don't trust him anymore, _of course_ they don't–

"It'll be fine," Sam finally says, and looks up at Dean. "I can manage. You – you stay here."

It's the most Sam's said to him since he's come back from being a demon. There is fiery determination in Sam's eyes, and Dean knows he's not going to back down on this. He's staying in the bunker, and if he tries to go with Sam he'll be restrained. _That_ is clear from Castiel's eyes.

"I thought you were on my side," he mumbles to the angel.

"I'm not taking sides," Cas informs him solemnly. "I'm watching out for Sam."

Sam gives him a small, hesitant smile, and then clears his throat awkwardly, getting up. "I'd better be off," he tells Cas, and it's like Dean's not even there. "You're going to stay here?"

_And keep an eye on Dean_ goes unspoken.

Castiel nods. "I am not needed anywhere else for the time being."

Sam nods, and claps Cas on the shoulders. "Later, Cas."

Dean's heart sinks further with every step Sam takes away from him, and he hates that he can't follow. Sam's still injured and he wants, _needs_, to have Sam's back even though he knows Sam doesn't need it. But he doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Sam, or even Castiel.

* * *

He paces up and down in the bunker the entire day after Sam leaves, and tries not to notice how Castiel is always conveniently lurking around the next corner with the handy excuse of "I forgot something in some random corner of the bunker that I've probably never seen but Sam thinks I should keep an eye on you so that's what I'm going to do". He knows he should probably eat something but he's not hungry, and his stomach still turns when he looks down at his fingers and sees a hammer there instead of a fork or spoon.

Eventually Cas tires of stalking him and settles down in the war room with a book, and Dean doesn't have to look at the cover to know it's research on the Mark of Cain. Unsuccessful research, if the scowl on the angel's face is anything to go by.

He paces some more and then joins Cas at the table. The angel spares him a glance before going back to his book, and whilst a part of Dean hates being treated like a part of the furniture, another part realizes he kind of had it coming. But he thinks that maybe he should talk to Cas, try to discuss this some more with him. After all, if he's doing this repentance thing then he's got to start somewhere, right?

"So," he says, endeavoring to keep his tone casual. Castiel looks up at him. "Since when have you, uh, decided to become Sam's personal bodyguard?" It's as good a question as any, and once that's been burning at the back of Dean's mind.

"Since you tried to kill him with a hammer," is Castiel's answer, and Dean suppresses a sigh. What had he been expecting, really?

"Sammy can take care of himself, you know," Dean points out.

"That doesn't mean no one else should," Cas replies, with a poorly-disguised scowl, like he just wants to get back to reading the fucking book.

"That's not what I said," begins Dean, but sighs and changes tack. "Okay, why are _you_ pissed at me?"

"I have not urinated at you," Castiel tells him with a straight face. "I do not urinate."

"That's not what I – never mind," sighs Dean again, and picks up the closest book. It's got nothing, though, and as is par for the course these days his mind moves to Sam.

He's fucked things up between him and his brother, that's for sure. Maybe permanently. With the way Sam flinches at the sound of his own name, refuses to look Dean in the eye or even be with him in the same room for more than five minutes... Dean's not sure they can ever go back to being what they were.

And he can't forget what Castiel had implied earlier, either – that whatever Sam was feeling, whatever was eating him up inside could have been perpetuated by him. By the very brother he'd sworn to protect. And shit, Dean knows he's fucked up, but every little moment, everything he's ever said to Sam that's been less than pleasant... it's all coming back, and all he can see is the inside of an abandoned church and Sam's tear-stained face, the blood dripping from his palms and a single devastating word falling from his lips like it's nothing.

"_So?"_

Has he really messed up _so_ bad? That Sam thought dying was the only way to redeem himself? That the only way he could make amends was to basically kill himself?

"_You know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? ...how many times I'd let you down."_

And Dean can hear his own words being echoed back at him.

"_He needs a chaperone."_

Because before, all Dean saw when he looked at Sam was the last broken seal, Lilith's dead body, black eyes and blood-stained lips, cold hard demeanor, Lucifer and mental instability to the point of near-insanity... and he'd never let himself see the brave, brave man Sam had become. The man who survived millennia in the worst part of Hell, who'd soldiered on despite memories of millennia of torture, the Devil inside his head and sickness, possession by angels and demons alike... and his own demon self.

He knows Sam checks on him at night, and he knows that Sam may not be really talking to him but he cares, because if he didn't he would just have cured Dean and run far, _far _away from the fucked up, twisted creature that had tried to bash his head in with a hammer and inflicted as much emotional pain as possible. God, Dean knows that if it had been the other way round he'd have left for sure, at least until he could sort himself out and come to terms with it. The fact that Sam's stayed, even though clearly it's not doing much for him...

"_You're still my big brother."_ It's been years and Dean can never forget those words. He's still Sam's big brother, and he doesn't deserve it but Sam's not going anywhere. Kid's always had a heart too fucking huge, stuffed to the brim with things like kindness and compassion and forgiveness and _so much love_, and shit, but Dean deserves absolutely none of it. Not even a little bit, _none_, not when he's always considered himself one step ahead and above, _big brother knows best so shut your trap and listen to me_, and God, Sam... Sam is amazing and Dean has never loved anyone this much before even though it feels like shards of glass inside his heart because he still can't touch his brother, his _everything_, without the guy jumping a foot into the air.

He's startled out of his thoughts by the shrill sound of a phone ringing and he looks up to see Castiel press his ancient Nokia to his ear. "Hello?"

Dean can't hear what the caller's saying but whatever it is, it's bad, going by the look of dawning horror and panic on the angel's face. "I'll be right there, just hang on," barks Cas, and tosses the phone aside before looking right at Dean. "Sam's in trouble."

And Dean understands what people mean when they talk about their entire world crashing down around them.

He's barely had time to compute the thought when Castiel vanishes with a _poof_, and shit, if Cas is leaving him alone then it's got to be bad, real bad, and Dean's broken heart is in his throat and he feels like he can't breathe. If anything happens to Sam, after _everything_ Sam's gone through... Dean's never going to forgive himself, not when the last memories Sam will have of him involve death threats and promises of pain.

It's only a few seconds but it feels like forever, and then Castiel's back in the room with Sam's arm around his neck, one arm circling his waist for support, and there is _so much blood_ and Dean's suffocating in it, in the thought of his baby brother bleeding–

"Hey!" Castiel barks at him, and he returns to his senses. "Dean! Help!"

Dean forces himself to move, catches Sam just as Castiel lets go. There is so much blood that he can't even tell what the location of the wound is, and oh God Sam's eyes are closed and he's not responding to anything–

But when Dean presses his fingers to the side of Sam's neck, he feels a faint flutter of pulse and everything slows down, and it feels like he can think again. _Compartmentalize_, he tells himself. _Go on your little guilt trip later. Right now Sammy needs you._

He takes a deep breath, and says, "Cas, get me a knife."

The angel hesitates, obviously not wanting to put Dean and a sharp object anywhere near Sam, but when Dean yells, "_Now!"_ he rushes off and returns seconds later with a kitchen knife. Dean cuts through Sam's shirt and immediately it's clear where all the blood is coming from – there are three long, deep gashes running from Sam's right shoulder blade to his hip, and Dean resists the urge to vomit when he catches a glimpse of bloody white bone.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, pressing Sam's ruined shirt over the wounds and attempting to stem as much of the bleeding as he can.

"I don't know," Castiel says, voice tight, before he falls to his knees and knocks Dean's hands out of the way.

"What the _fuck_, Cas–"

But Castiel's already spread his palms over the gashes, and there is a bright light and Dean watches as the skin stitches itself together, covers up the death-white ribs where some runes are visible, until there are no wounds.

"I can't replace the blood he's lost," Castiel tells him, checking Sam's pulse again and then placing his hand on his forehead.

"No, I – I can manage the rest," Dean says, feeling a little numb now that it's over. Sam's okay, he's okay, _he's okay_. "Why didn't you do that earlier?"

"I had to see the wounds to heal them," Castiel says. "Do you need help in taking him to his room?" Even though it's posed as a question Cas moves near Sam's head, and Dean remembers that the angel's not going to leave him alone with Sam any time soon.

"Can't you _poof_ him there?"

"In his condition it wouldn't be advisable," Cas murmurs. "He should be awake in some time, once the shock wears off."

Dean nods. Okay, that makes sense. He gestures to Castiel and grabs Sam's legs. "All right," he grunts, and lifts.

Between them they manage to get Sam settled into not his room but Dean's, and Dean can't even bring himself to care about the blood staining his sheets. Castiel leaves to get a basin of warm water and a clean cloth on Dean's orders, while Dean strips Sam of his blood-caked jeans.

There are minor bruises all over his body, but they are nothing compared to the gashes. Dean runs his fingers softly over the healed skin. It's still slightly red and appears stretched tight, but Dean knows from experience that it will be flawless again in a while. Like nothing ever happened.

He stands and staggers into the bathroom and dry-heaves into the toilet, his body finally catching up with his brain. Sam, injured and bleeding, calling Cas for help because Dean hadn't been there to prevent exactly this kind of thing from happening. Sam, passed out in his bed with dried blood all over him, his skin ashen and unnaturally white. Sam, who if he knew that Dean was tending to him would probably excuse himself and hide in his room and attempt to take care of it himself, because Dean had fucked up so bad his baby brother was terrified of him.

There is a cool, comforting hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Castiel. "Sam needs you," the angel murmurs, and aren't those the fucking magic words. Dean nods, swallows and winces against the bitter taste in his mouth, before rinsing it out and following Cas back to his room.

The basin and cloth are on the nightstand, and wordlessly Dean soaks the cloth and gets to cleaning Sam up. Castiel does not have to be asked – he begins healing the bruising and minor cuts slowly, steadily, until Sam looks like he's just asleep. Naked save for his boxers and pale as death... but asleep.

"He's much better," Castiel reports, and places his hand on Sam's forehead again. Dean wonders what that's all about, but before he can ask Castiel says, "For the pain. And so that he doesn't dream. He needs rest."

Dean nods, grateful. He carefully tugs his blanket out from under Sam and spreads it over him, making sure he's entirely covered and in some semblance of comfort. Almost before he can stop himself he reaches out and brushes Sam's overgrown hair away from his forehead, and wow he'd almost forgotten how soft it is.

"I'm staying here," he says hoarsely, a little redundantly. Obviously he's not going anywhere till Sam wakes.

"So am I," Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off with an exasperated sigh.

"Look, man, I get that you're worried, okay? I get it. I do. But you've got to have seen by now that I'm not gonna hurt him. Why would I? He's my _brother_, Cas, and I may not have been behaving like it recently but I sure as hell haven't forgotten it. Let me try to make it right. Let me be there for him, okay?"

Castiel purses his lips, as if considering. Then he nods, and warns, "If I hear anything to indicate Sam does not want you here–"

"You'll kick my ass, I get it," finishes Dean. Castiel nods again in comfirmation.

"Sam's had enough pain," he says shortly, and exits before Dean can retort. Not that Dean can really say anything to that anyway, not when he's the cause for the most recent pain.

He's got to make things right between him and Sam. Whatever it takes. Because if this is how it's going to be for the rest of their lives – his own brother a stranger and his only friend watching him like a hawk as if expecting him to snap – then he's going to put a bullet in his brain. It's not like he's going to manage to stay sane without Sam, anyway.

He settles down on the floor next to the bed, leaning against it and resting his arms on the mattress near Sam's arm. He's not sure how long he watches Sam for, taking in the rise and fall of his chest and trying not to think about how he'd been a split-second away from murdering his own brother.

The sleeve of his shirt rides up a little and he sees the Mark, and suddenly he wants to do nothing more than rip it right off his skin, grab a knife and cut it out and let it bleed free. However he knows that it's not very likely to work, and he'll most probably wake up to find that there hasn't been any difference, and suddenly he thinks _is this how helpless Sammy felt, knowing he was Lucifer's vessel and powerless to stop him?_

He swallows down the bile rising in his throat, and whispers hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry. So damn sorry."

There is no response, predictably, but he says it again anyway, in the vain irrational hope that it'll somehow get through to Sam and he'll understand just how much Dean hates himself, wants nothing more than to be dead because he can't live with himself and the reminder of what he tried to do to the person more important to him than anyone else in the entire universe. Even when Sam had been hopped on demon blood, even when he'd been _soulless_, he'd never tried to kill Dean. Well, except for the vampire incident, but that had been for a case and he'd known there was a cure.

And Dean? Tried to kill him just for the fun of it, knowing there probably would be no coming back for Sam if he'd succeeded.

So he repeats the words over and over again, until they stop making sense. There is nothing else in the world but Sam and him and this room, and Dean's not even sure how he's speaking, just that his lips are moving and his voice is broken and desperate and his little brother is passed out in his bed.

* * *

The first thing Sam registers is the familiar scent of Dean wrapped all around him like a warm embrace that he hasn't had in forever, and realizes he's in his big brother's room. He wonders who puts him here, and knows he should be a little panicky or at least concerned, but he can't bring himself to feel anything other than... surprisingly, safe and content. There is no pain, and he assumes that Castiel healed him.

It occurs to him that he's clean and in his boxers only, and he wonders who did that. Did Cas also get rid of the blood? Perhaps, but it seems unlikely that he's done such a good job. There is only one person Sam knows who's taken care of him like this.

He opens his eyes and blinks away the sleep in them, before turning his head to the side. Dean's asleep with his head on the mattress, the rest of him slumped uncomfortably against the side of the bed. One hand is wrapped around Sam's, and he thinks that maybe that's where the contentment might have come from.

He knows he's been avoiding his brother lately. When he sees Dean's face all he can see are black eyes, lips shaped around a pointed taunt and a smirk. He can hear, clear as day, Dean's voice roaring his nickname at him, swinging about a hammer and trying to provoke him into a fight. And most of all he can remember the gut-twisting bone deep terror he felt, running from his brother, the man who'd once been his protector.

For fuck's sake, the name Sammy still sends shivers up his spine, even though logically speaking this is nothing compared to the shit Sam's faced over the years. It's just that... it's _Dean_. His big brother Dean. Sam needed time to process it, to see where they stood. He knows that he wants to be brothers again, but he also realizes it'll take time to get there. There's been so much happening between them lately, and so much they need to talk about.

So much trust that has to be re-established.

But Dean's here now, sleeping with his fingers curled loosely around Sam's, and it's so much more than what Sam expected. He thought that Dean would maintain the distance and only make sure he was okay before leaving it at that, but his brother's gone above and beyond. There's nothing stopping him from finding a warm bed... and yet he chose to be at Sam's side on the cold hard floor.

Sam doesn't realize his eyes are wet, not until a tear leaks out and runs down the side of his face. With a soft grunt he turns on his side and rests his other hand over Dean's, mindful of the still-mending muscles in his back and side. Expectedly, it wakes Dean, who blinks groggily in Sam's direction before his eyes widen, and he's alert.

"Sam! Are you – how are you feeling?" He makes no move to withdraw his hand, even though he looks like he's expecting Sam to flinch away any moment now.

"I'm... okay. Been worse," Sam replies honestly. "Uh – you?"

Dean laughs mirthlessly. "Wha – how'm _I_ feeling? Sam, you scared the crap out of me." The words sound deliberate, like he's forcing himself not to give in to the urge to call his brother Sammy. It makes Sam's heart hurt a little, even though hearing it would probably still frighten him a little.

"Sorry," he huffs. "Hunt went a little sideways. I got the bastard, though. Werewolf."

Dean looks like he's thinking something, and then offers Sam a tentative, lop-sided smile. "I know, Sam. You – you're an amazing hunter."

Sam doesn't reply, feeling a little taken aback by the random compliment. He's not going to be picky about it, though, so he just nods awkwardly. Dean's fingers twitch a little over his, but neither of them make any move to separate their hands.

"Where's Cas?" Sam finally asks.

"Dunno, roaming somewhere around the bunker," replies Dean. "I had to kick him out of the room last night. He wouldn't leave your side. Thinks I'll – I'll try to hurt you again." The pain on Dean's face at that is raw and open, and Sam has to look away.

"You're not," he says softly. "Going to hurt me, that is. I know that."

Dean looks up at him, looking surprised. "Sam–"

"I know I've been avoiding you," Sam interrupts. "Truth is, Dean... it's not easy. I can't just forget all of it and pretend things are okay between us. They're not. We still have a lot to discuss, and there are so many issues to straighten out."

"Tell me what to do," Dean says hoarsely. "Tell me what you need, Sam. If you want me to leave, I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want, just–" a harsh sob escapes his throat. "Just tell me how to make it okay. I just want to make things right."

Another tear escapes into Sam's hair. "I – yeah, I know," he says, voice heavy and trembling slightly. "I know, Dean. I just – I need some time, okay? It's not going to be that easy. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night because I think you're going to kill me, and that's – that's not going to go away so soon."

Dean nods, and a tear falls down the tip of his nose as he lowers his head. "I know, Sam," he whispers. "Believe me, you could never hate me as much as I hate myself. I wish I was dead, Sam."

"Don't," Sam says sharply, and abruptly remembers when Dean had voiced something similar out loud and Sam had said the same before walking out of the room. Deja vu, and all that. "Don't you say that, Dean. Not – not after everything I did to get you back. You're still my big brother, and it's going to take more than this to change that. All I'm saying is – don't expect things to go back to normal so fast. They won't. I need time, Dean. _We_ need time."

"Okay," Dean replies, and squeezes Sam's hand. "I hear you, Sammy. Sorry," he adds at once, growing horror visible on his face. "I didn't mean to–"

"It's okay," interrupts Sam. And it is. If they're going to start to fix things, they can begin with that. "It's okay, Dean," he repeats. "I – I'm not scared anymore."

Dean hesitates, and then smiles, a ghost of the wide grins Sam's used to. "Okay, Sammy," he says, and it sounds so different from what he'd heard from the demon's mouth that it feels like a different word. There is no rage or promise of cruelty in the nickname now, nothing but sincerity and love. He squeezes Dean's fingers back.

"We're gonna fix this," Dean promises. "I don't care how long it'll take, Sam. We'll fix this, you'll see. I'll do whatever it takes, okay? From now on – I'll listen to you. And you'll listen to me, and – and no lies or secrets or deception, okay? Just – just tell me what you need."

Sam considers, and really, it's been years but the answer will always, _always_ be the same, and no force in Heaven, Hell or earth can ever change that. "Just be my big brother again," he says softly, and Dean nods.

"I – yeah. Okay. I can do that," he says, and places his free hand on the side of Sam's neck, a warm comforting weight.

"I'd almost forgotten you used to do that," Sam says, the words inadvertently slipping out in the wake of the sudden feeling of security, something he hasn't felt in forever. "It feels... good. Safe."

In response Dean just intertwines their fingers, and smiles wider at his baby brother.

* * *

Things are not okay yet, though, and like Sam said it'll take some time before they can be. But it's a start, it's a new beginning and another chance, and Dean's not going to let it go. He can make this right, and he _will_.

* * *

**Whoo, there it is. 6K words, which is 6K more than I thought I could accomplish. I'd love to know your thoughts on this, seeing as I've spent a lot of effort on it.**

**Love,**  
**Remy x**


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